The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (5 page)

The hallway was long and wide, so the house itself must be larger than a standard urban townhouse. A herringbone pattern of red tiles ran the length of the corridor, blending into a Neptune themed mosaic gracing the atrium floor. He shuddered at a flashback of mutated aquatic creatures.

A quick scan of the entry hall revealed frescoed walls of more oceanic scenes, a pink-marble pedestal with a bust of some stoic ancestor—who didn’t look any happier to be here than he was—and a cupboard of cedar inlaid with intricate panels of carved ivory. He squinted at one of the panels. More dolphins?

They continued down an open colonnade of Doric style columns that supported an upper level. It mirrored another on the opposite side. Interesting, as most villas and townhouses in Rome were built on a single floor plan. As was the custom among patricians, a garden filled the space between the walkways. But this was no mere garden.

Clusters of bushes, arranged by size and graduations of color blended with date trees and palm fronds to form a backdrop of verdant splendor. He sniffed, savored the tangy scent of lemon and orange, noted several trees heavy with fruit. Blooms of red, yellow, white, pink, and purple spilled in a riot of color from urns set at intervals around an oval fountain of polished limestone. A goddess’ paradise.

Damon scanned the periphery of the terraced patio. There were no obvious exits. With a quick glance he gauged the height of the garden wall. It was at least several feet taller than him, and while there were no gates built into it, it might be possible to move a bench close. Of course, if the goddess used marble as liberally outside as she did within her house, that might prove a problem.

He eased toward the garden edge for a better look, but Kaj wrapped a meaty hand around the back of his neck and steered him onward, keeping it there until they reached a bronze door.

Damon sorted through his impressions. A house of wealth, decorated with costly art. A garden that would rival the Emperor’s in splendor, and not a single person, not one solitary slave or servant who might wonder why a near—naked, filthy man was being dragged through their home.

Kaj came to a halt. By now Damon was not surprised to find another school of dolphins embossed on the eight panels that comprised the bronzed portal. Using his free hand, Kaj opened the heavy door and thrust him inside.

Quick reflexes and a fighter’s balance saved Damon from sprawling onto the pebbled floor. Two skylights set at angles in the domed ceiling provided sufficient light for him to see a six sided granite bath rimmed in black marble.

Steam rose from the surface of the water, adding to the humid air that dragged at his lungs and was already forming a fine sheen of moisture on his skin. Kaj untied his hands then nudged him toward the bath. “Do not be all day at it.”

Strange as it was that a prisoner should be afforded the luxury of a bath, Damon wasn’t about to argue. With one tug, his rag of a loincloth was off and he was easing himself beneath the water. His breath came out in a slow hiss when the water washed over the crusted gash on his arm, but he ignored the pain and sank deeper into the muscle—soothing warmth of the water. Heaven—if he believed in one—would surely feel like this.

Kaj settled on a stone ledge within easy strangling distance. He kept one eye on Damon, the other on his knife which he twirled in a blatant fashion between his hands. The man was truly beginning to irritate him. Damon cast a surreptitious look at his jailor. Maybe he could return the favor.

Holding his breath, Damon slipped beneath the water, waiting just long enough so that when he finally emerged his escort was standing at the edge of the bath, glowering into the water. He gave Kaj a look of pure innocence and was immediately rewarded with a dark scowl.

A fit of coughing disguised his laughter. His ability to stay submerged for long periods of time had often given his Mistress Shifra fits, followed quickly by a lecture on responsibility. Damon sobered. Only after several years had he come to realize her concern was for him and not for the loss of a slave. When Jared’s mother had died, he’d felt the loss as keenly as his friend.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned his attention to a  tray filled with an assortment of glass vials, a curved
strigil
and a sponge. Deciding that his body had endured enough scraping for a lifetime, he chose the sponge, making quick work of the dirt layered from weeks in prison.

Damon shook his head at a cobalt—blue, dolphin—shaped bottle, removed the stopper and inhaled the delicate rose scent—the goddess’ scent. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear the soft, seductive voice that had changed his fate whispering in his ear. His eyes snapped open. Gods, he must be going mad. He set the dolphin aside and selected a clear vial. Satisfied with the sandalwood and spice, he poured a small amount into his hands and with a brisk rub, anointed his freshly washed hair.

Resuming his position against the edge of the tub, he closed his eyes, replaying the events of the past few weeks. He went over every detail—for the hundredth time—beginning with Tertius’ summons to his
domus
in the dead of night.

Damon had listened to Rome’s highest—ranking Senator with detached interest. The assignment to infiltrate a meeting of plebian tradesmen had seemed simple enough. He’d already been posing as a carpenter, reporting on the activities of the guild members who he’d found to be decent, honest men working to protect their livelihoods and support their families.

Their concerns about fair prices and equitable contracts seemed to agitate Tertius and while a good spy only reported what he observed, Damon had begun to suspect a more sinister purpose to the Senator’s interest. A good spy also never asked questions but he had found himself doing just that, leading to his final, deadly mistake.

The meeting of guild members had already begun when Damon had slipped in and listened to the heated debate. Half of the assembly demanded action while the others called for restraint. They’d been so busy arguing that no one had heard the soldiers approach. Chaos erupted when the door burst open. There was no escape.

Damon stared at the smooth side of the bath, the images flashing through his mind. Seized and cast into the infamous prison at the foot of the Captoline Hill, Damon had quickly realized that sacrificing his life had been part of Tertius’ plan when he was denied release by another of the Senator’s cronies. Damon growled low in his throat. He should have known better than to trust the old reptile.

Every man at the clandestine meeting was convicted of treason and executed. Well, all except himself, which brought him back to the goddess. That part, he hated to admit, still had him baffled.

It was unlikely that her timely rescue had anything to do with the Senator’s scheming. Few people were aware the renowned Tertius Maximinus employed a personal spy. A vital part of clandestine affairs.

He shifted restlessly against the rim. Binding himself to the great Roman Senator Tertius Maximinus had seemed his only choice at the time. He’d been used all his life to promote the cause of others so serving the Senator to see his sister free, his family reunited seemed a small price.

But recent assignments given by his patron had raised serious concerns, prompting discreet questions that had not sat well with the Senator. Damon, Tertius reminded him in short, clipped tones, would do as he was told, or his sister would suffer.

Raw anger disrupted the solitude of the bath. If that bastard had caused Lita even one moment of pain...

“That’s enough,” growled Kaj, “You’d think you were used to bathing.”

Damon narrowed his eyes, squeezing the sponge dry. He was getting good and tired of the lout barking at him as though he were an imbecile, too stupid to breathe. But leaving him under that assumption could work to his advantage.

He caught the cotton towel Kaj tossed at him and wrapped it around his waist. For the next half hour he endured the clumsy oaf sawing away at his hair, stopping at the nape and just short of lopping off an ear. His sigh of relief was audible when Kaj finally handed him the knife indicating he should scrape off his own beard.

A fresh linen loincloth replaced the towel, followed by a tunic of deep purple, the color of royalty, and very expensive leather boots. Raking him with a critical eye, Kaj snarled and spun him around, binding his wrists once more.

Damon shrugged free of the man’s grasp before he could bark another order, drew himself to his full height and squared his shoulders. “Lead the way, my friend.”

J
ulia paced in front of her father’s favorite sedan chair, kicking the hem of her ochre
stola
out of the way with each agitated turn. What was taking Kaj so long? Had the criminal balked at the preparations? If he objected to the simple matter of a bath, what would his reaction be to her proposal?

She paused mid-turn, twisted her ring.  He might refuse, call her mad. Julia rolled her eyes and resumed her pacing. Of course he would agree. Live or die, the choice was simple.

Wasn’t it?

Oh, this was ridiculous. She was used to handling matters of importance and used to making important decisions. Her household functioned smoothly because her servants and family trusted her. She had never failed them and she would not begin now.

It would be a simple matter of establishing from the very start with the ruffian that she was the mistress and demanded obedience and compliance. He was a common criminal while Julia was the daughter of a noble Roman house. There was nothing more to it.

Then why was her stomach tied in knots?

Footsteps echoed along the corridor, slowing as they approached the door. Julia sat in her father’s chair, arranged the folds of her tunic and lifted her chin. This meeting would be brief, long enough for him to grovel at her feet, express his gratitude for his rescue and listen docilely to his role in her plan.

Kaj entered first, the fierce look on his face sending fresh waves of uncertainty crashing through her. He must have had a difficult time getting the man’s cooperation. Criminals were violent, crude and void of moral standards. She twisted her ring. She hadn’t considered that the man might not be ethical.

Julia pushed the doubts away. The decision had been made and she would not back away from it. Stubborn is what her father would call her and she supposed it was true though she preferred determined. Either way she took after Octavian in such matters and that was a point of pride.

Kaj bit out an unintelligible order over his shoulder. Julia took a deep breath and focused on the door determined to keep her revulsion concealed. Instead, her breath caught in her throat.

The man who strode into the room bore no resemblance to the beaten, debased creature of seven nights past. He was the most striking male she’d ever seen. He reminded her of a sculpture she’d once admired of the war god Mars. His nose was straight, adding to the aristocratic features of his face with its firm chin, squared jaw and full, sensual mouth.

His hair, the shade of nutmeg now that the grime had been washed away, had been trimmed, chopped off in a ragged line just below the nape of his neck. Combined with the long layers that brushed across his eyes, it gave him a tousled look as though he had just arisen from a long night’s sleep—or bed play.

Dear Jupiter.

She took a steadying breath and continued her visual inspection. He could stand to gain some weight, though in truth the leanness of his frame added to the sleek hard lines of his body. A warrior’s physique on a criminal? A tremor of unease flared within her.

At Kaj’s barked command he halted. Legs braced apart, broad shoulders pulled back he looked like a general on the verge of battle. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him dressed in armor, sword at the ready.

With effort, she banished the image from her mind and concentrated. Criminals were not supposed to be heart-stoppingly handsome. Julia searched his features for some flaw, some outward sign of his corrupt nature. Her heart tumbled in her chest when he turned and pinned her with a glittering, silver gaze.

Julia fought not to squirm under his intense scrutiny, watched as he scanned her in a leisurely fashion. She felt the rush of heat to her cheeks when his gaze lingered on her breasts. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile.

“Goddess. At last we meet.”

The low, rich timbre of his voice flowed over her, warming her like Iberian wine which, as Julia recalled, also muddled her ability to think.

He assumed a casual stance, as though he had not a care in the world, that he was not bound and at her mercy. There was not a hint of worry and even less of fear. In fact he appeared absolutely confident. Arrogant.

The utter gall!

Anger gathered her scattered wits. She peered down her nose, noting with another prick of irritation that even with the chair sitting on a raised dais, he was taller. “I am Julia Octavia Manulus. What is your name?”

He raised a single brow, his amused smile still in place. “Damon.”

That was all? Damon? No family
nomen
, no Damon, son of the fuller—the butcher, the baker. Just Damon? It meant loyal friend. A good omen? She sent him a measuring look, took note of the sharp glint in his eyes.

Likely not.

She would have to alter her approach, appeal to that modicum of intelligence that she’d not expected. “Your accommodations? They have met your needs?”

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly, darkened to the color of storm clouds. “I have been in worse cells.”

Cells? She supposed that would be one way to perceive it—the room had been locked. But just how many cells had he previously occupied?

She chose to ignore the remark, replying coolly, “Has the food been adequate? Your wounds tended?”

“Any food is an improvement from the past three weeks. As to my wounds—” He rolled his shoulders. “—they will heal.”

When was he going to start groveling? She tamped down annoyance at his dismissal of her concern. “Yes, well. I’m sure you are wondering why you were brought here.”